


Crowned in Silver

by Adelth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Id Fic, Inspired by Fanart, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Not even my nonnies, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Sexual Content, Victor Nikiforov-centric, and other related tumblr posts, lots of hair, lots of pining, other people's nonnies, this is really just an AU where Victor never cut his hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15399093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelth/pseuds/Adelth
Summary: "Anonymous asked:Okay friend, here’s a fun idea. YOI AU where everything is the same, but Viktor never cut his hair."Original post here





	Crowned in Silver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Littorella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littorella/gifts), [savedbythenotepad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedbythenotepad/gifts).



> Credit for this idea goes to [savedbythenotepad](http://savedbythenotepad.tumblr.com/) for responding to the ask with head-canon, [Alli](https://littorella.tumblr.com/) for drawing the related art, and the anon who started it all. I hope you don't mind me gifting this to those of you I can name. The ask/headcanon/art post that first popped up in my feed and inspired this can be viewed [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/post/176183298328/okay-friend-heres-a-fun-idea-yoi-au-where) and Alli has drawn even more awesome art in the meantime [here](https://littorella.tumblr.com/post/175675905227/if-vitya-never-cut-his-hair-yuuri-and-all-of-us)

**_"Your crown has been bought and paid for.  All you have to do is put it on your head."_ ** \- Dr. Maya Angelou, slightly misquoting author James Baldwin.

 

Victor almost cuts his hair when he’s nineteen. It's a strange age for him, all sweat and adrenaline, breathless hope and heartbreak lingering around every corner. He’s starting to appreciate the way he can fill out a suit like a man, but he’s unwilling to relinquish his leotards and leg warmers. He finds himself wondering who he is, exactly, and the prevailing opinion is that it’s a normal feeling. He’ll be turning twenty soon, after all, well and truly an adult making his way in the world. Of course this is a time of change, of new horizons, of abandoning childish things.

At least that's what everyone else seems to think.

Victor thinks he’s twelve years into a career where he’ll peak at twenty-two. The cartilage in his knees will wear thin, his body will stop producing collagen, his charms will fade and that will be the end of Victor Nikiforov, Russia’s darling who never quite became the superstar he had the potential to be. But hey, at least he’ll still look good in a suit when he’s worn out and washed up right? Maybe he’ll still get endorsement deals.

Victor looks at himself in the mirror, scissors in hand, and tries to figure out why he wants this, or even if he actually wants it at all. Reinventing himself is _necessary_ if he wants to stay relevant, he hasn’t spent so much of his life in the spotlight without learning that. He can capture everyone’s attention by making this change, symbolically cast off his past and choose a bold new future.

Short hair will be easier to take care of, practical. It won’t sit heavy against his neck for hours if left to dry on its own. He won’t go through so much hair product. It will show off his cheekbones, jaw, and neck, now that he’s finally old enough to openly trade on his own sex appeal.

It’s the right thing to do, and maybe it will stop him from feeling so stagnant. The bulk of his life as a competitive figure skater is certainly behind him, but the highpoints could still be yet to come. He’s been successful so far, really, he’s taken gold at Skate America this year and is in the running to win again at the GPF. He has a respectable collection of medals from international events, and he’s likely to dominate nationally for the next few years unless Georgi manages to develop artistically in some unforeseen way.

But it isn’t enough, it isn’t...Victor has so much more to show the world. He lifts the scissors, drawing his bangs forward in front of his eyes. His fingers pull through the heavy silk of his hair, soft and clean, freshly washed after another day of sweat.

His hair is his most distinctive feature. It’s what he’s known for, how he became recognizable, a fan favorite amid a field of hopeful young athletes. It’s time to prove he’s more than a gimmick, that he’s worth paying attention to for his skills and not just his style; it’s time to take ownership of his image.

So what if he agrees when people call his hair beautiful?. So what if he loves the way it swings behind him while he skates? So what if it’s always felt special, the crown he was born with, not heavy and gold but silver and silken?

He swipes angrily at the tear that leaks out of one eye with the back of the hand holding the scissors. Ridiculous, he’s an adult in every way that matters. There’s always been a time limit on the novelty of his long hair, that’s half of what made refusing to give up his vaguely effete image so fun. But now his shoulders are broadening and his voice is settling into something deeper than he’s used to and his hands still look huge but his body is starting to match. He needs to be who people want him to be, or convince them to love who he is, but he doesn’t even know who that is anymore.

Maybe he never knew in the first place. Maybe he’s always just been a reflection of what he thinks his coaches, the judges, the sponsors and his adoring public want to see. Dedicated to the art and playfully disobedient. Single-minded and ambitious but gracefully so. Pushing the boundaries of acceptable behavior but never truly revolutionary, just enough to create that frisson of transgression related buzz. Maybe they’ll bore of him no matter what he does, and he’ll have given everything to people who can’t be persuaded to care.

His hand is shaking, and he drops the scissors into the sink with a clatter before he can do something stupid and hurt himself. Really hurt himself, in the way that means drawing blood and having to explain to Yakov, not an illusory hurt like cutting off the hair he loves to appease always fickle fame.

It’s only hair, it grows back, and so what if it was his before it was ever theirs? His strangely broad shoulders curl inwards, hands coming up to cover his face as he sinks back against the bathroom wall. He hugs his knees to stop himself from shaking and tells himself he isn't crying.

They’re still boney, childish, a silly kid thing like his hair.

He huffs a wet laugh, imagining showing up at the event tonight in his beautifully tailored new suit with a bright scrunchie in his hair. Yakov probably wouldn’t even yell at him for it, having given up on that particular battle long ago. It isn’t surprising anymore, it just...

He winds his hands into his hair and chooses comfort.

~

Victor never seriously considers cutting his hair again. If someone asks or the thought creeps in uninvited, he swats it down with a disbelieving smile, like the whole idea is absurd. _Why would he cut his hair_ , that smile says, _isn't it beautiful_?

The night of the crying fit that never happened, he cleans himself up with a cool towel pressed to his puffy eyes and a bit of concealer, then he goes to Lilia and asks for help. He can pull his hair into a braid or a messy bun as well as anyone, but complicated updos are a bit beyond him.  

She’s merciful, for once, and makes no comment as she twists his thick hair up into an elaborately braided chignon. The hair looks like it should be matched with either a ballerina’s tutu or a wedding dress, but Victor pairs it with his new charcoal suit and dares anyone to comment.

He’s still looking down the barrel of aging out of his career, still not sure who Victor-the-man is supposed to be, still presenting his personality in terms of what he thinks will earn him the most points. He’s not faltering though, and he’s not done; he’ll make a name for himself on his own terms.

He keeps his hair, he works himself to near exhaustion at the rink every day, and he orders custom gold blades for his skates. Let the rest of the world know he’s coming for them.

~

Victor’s interest in his hair comes and goes. He learns increasingly complicated styles, fills his bathroom with products and implements. Then he gets bored and does nothing but pull it into a ponytail for three months straight, newly fascinated with painting his nails instead. One day he sees a hairstyle he loves and decides to try bangs. Two weeks later he hates the bangs and tries everything to make his hair grow out faster.

At twenty-three he poses for a sports magazine, strong back to the camera, his hair in a long braid aligned with his spine. All he wears are the gold medals he's won this year - ribbons piled around his neck - and the still tender bruises from a bad fall during his last short program. The commentators had speculated it might take him out of the competition entirely. He’d gone on to win after the long program, where he landed the groundbreaking jump he'd been working on all year in competition for the first time.

The quad flip is his. The Grand Prix Series is his. Worlds isn’t his yet, but it will be soon. He’s going to win his own body weight in gold medals, become a household name, and command top dollar to appear at ice shows for the rest of his life. He’s so close to winning on a scale that defies easy description he can taste it.

His body is a _weapon_ , honed to the exact taut balance of weight and strength he needs to fly across and over the ice, and he feels zero shame showing it off. He’s learned to conceal his sharp edges for public consumption, is charming in English and French as well as his own native Russian. He takes creative control of his programs, his costumes, his music - and Yakov can’t even argue because _it works._

Victor has it figured out. All he has to do is not slip, not fall, not show on his face when it hurts. All he has to do is reach within himself and pull out any truth he finds, scraping at his raw insides for anything he can leave on the ice.

He kisses every gold medal he wins, because yes, _it is worth it_.

~

The night of the banquet at Sochi his hair is pulled into a tight little bun, sleek but boring. Everyone’s accepted that this is a “grown-up” style by now, and he hasn’t bothered with anything else in a while. He’s been disinterested for, well, more like three years than three months at this point.

The bun is perfectly serviceable for most things, but it was not built to withstand Katsuki Yuuri. Neither was any other part of Victor’s person, as it develops. He’s red-faced and sweating by the end, suit disheveled, wisps of hair escaping the bun and sticking to his forehead.

Victor’s having too much fun to care, and Yuuri smiles blindingly as he dips Victor back, not even appearing to notice Victor’s less than perfect coif.

Victor thinks maybe he wouldn't mind Yuuri seeing him with bed head every morning, hopes Yuuri maybe wouldn’t mind either.

~

The day after the banquet Victor leaves his hair down for the first time in a while, its weight draped around his shoulders and falling nearly to the dip of his waist. It’s a lot of hair, but Victor feels light all over - light on his feet, lightheaded, lighthearted.

He’s just traveling today, so it’s a bit silly, but it makes him feel beautiful. He thinks about going to the rink when he reaches St. Petersburg, of trying to make this feeling into a routine, but realizes he doesn’t want to. Just this once he’d like to keep something for himself.

~

Yuuri Katsuki doesn’t contact him, doesn’t respond to his own efforts to reach out over social media.

Victor winds his hair up into its customary bun and realizes he was wrong. He’d already chosen one thing to keep for himself, back when he was nineteen and holding a pair of scissors in trembling hands.

Well, alright then. Victor is a vain creature, and a greedy one too. He _doesn’t_ feel bad for all the skaters stuck in his shadow, or for monopolizing prize and sponsorship money. He’s still grounded enough to know he’s lucky to be where he is, lucky to have caught Yakov’s attention in the first place, lucky to be well proportioned and healthy and good looking.

That just makes him all the more rapacious about keeping his spot for as long as he’s able. Young Yuri Plisetsky isn’t quite ready yet, but he’ll be replacing Victor as Russia’s premier skater sooner rather than later.

 _It was worth it,_ he reminds himself, gold blades cutting familiar arcs into the ice as he works to package what Katsuki Yuuri made him feel into his next winning routine.

He’s not done yet, after all.

~

Victor doesn’t know it, but half a world away Katsuki Yuuri strokes his phone screen with gentle fingers when the paparazzi photographs of Victor with his hair undone appear on the internet. He watches _Stammi Vicino_ again and again until he knows each step, each gesture, by heart.

Yuuri doesn’t know it, but Victor Nikiforov watches his performance, brow furrowing into an expression of sternness he wouldn’t recognize on his own face. It’s not an acceptable performance countenance, not the face he uses to telegraph determined concentration on the ice, not an expression of frustration he’s willing to show even his rinkmates. It’s a coach look, a _what-are-you-doing_ scowl, the kind Lilia is too good for but Yakov wears with some frequency.

Yuuri takes Victor’s own heartache, press-ganged into service, and turns it back upon him - all before Victor can even debut _Eros_ and claim the narrative for himself. Yuuri’s _Stammi Vicino_ is a pressure wave vibrating at Victor’s own resonant frequency, it cracks him open in a way bloody feet and snide comments about his age and the weight of a nation’s expectations on his shoulders never managed.

Victor is not nineteen, he doesn’t cry on a bathroom floor. He books a flight to Japan, as prepared to turn his every resource towards a desired end as ever.

~

It’s not like Victor _plans_ to reintroduce himself to Yuuri while bare-assed naked, but he’s perfectly willing to take advantage of the opportunities life presents. Being naked is a resource, one Victor has capitalized on before. His body is maybe not quite as tight as it was when he was twenty-three, but he’s flushed with the heat of the hot spring and he knows it’s a nice view.

He considers setting his hair free of its high bun as he stands, but decides it won’t actually do him any favors in this humidity, and disguises the motion by reaching for the towel balanced atop his head instead. He supposes he could use it to tactfully prevent Yuuri from getting the full frontal just yet - there is something to be said for making them wait - but covering up would probably just look awkward so he settles for holding the small towel against his side instead.

It does not go as well as he might have hoped.

~

Victor is tired, and cranky, and hungry. He’s divested himself of his career stability, traveled over 7000 kilometers in pursuit of true love, and had his love interest flee in terror from his naked body. Whatever manic energy has been sustaining him thus far drains abruptly, and he crashes in the aftermath, despite his long inurement to the effects of jetlag.

He’s only half asleep, really, vaguely aware of sounds from the kitchen, the smell of food, and Yuuri’s stare. He’s not ready to face Yuuri without a plan, unwilling to give up, but unsure where he’s supposed to go from here.

He feels the slightest pull against his scalp and opens one eye just a sliver to observe as Yuuri touches a lock of the silver hair strewn across the tatami, expression rapt. He withdraws abruptly, jerking upright with a snap when footsteps approach, unknowing that he’s already been caught in the act.

 _Well_ , Victor thinks, _I can work with that._

~

Victor carefully styles his hair, pulling most of it up but leaving artfully curled tendrils hanging around his face and against the back of his neck. He makes it look effortless, as if he’d just pulled it back for convenience, as if it would fall so nicely on its own. No one who’s actually had long hair would be fooled, but it works remarkably well on most men, even those subject to stage makeup who should probably know better.

When he leans in and takes Yuuri’s chin, his hair brushes against the other man’s face and neck. _“...Trust in our relationship,”_ Victor all but whispers into his ear, meaning everything from _I think we could be good together_ to _I won’t hurt you_ to _please let me ride you into the sunset._

Victor thinks it’s working, for a moment, when Yuuri’s hand twitches upwards like maybe he’s going to forgo caution and just grab Victor by the hair. Victor would let him ruin the careful curls, scatter the discrete pins, whatever he wanted if he’d just touch him.

Yuuri hesitates for one bare instant, but then he flees again.

~

Victor is getting somewhere, he knows he is.

He’s sure Yuuri is familiar with his work, it’s obvious he’s followed Victor’s career. It shows in his skating, how he bends his neck and turns his wrists while gliding through his spins, the way he works the set up for his jumps into his programs.

The low braid is identical to the one from his most famous nude photoshoot, and he’s betting Yuuri will recognize it. _“...Sleep together,”_ he says and means it. He’d be fine if all they did was sleep. He’s starting to grasp that their relationship is going to be more complicated than he’d imagined, that maybe being a coach and a lover to a man he hardly knows isn’t just going to fall into place.

That’s fine, he’s never been intimidated by a challenge. His best choreography almost never comes easy, even though that makes a better soundbite. _“Oh, once I find the right music it’s obvious,”_ and, _“I think it must have come to me in a dream.”_

He’ll pretend it’s easy to shrug off another rejection, easy as shrugging off bruises and rude reporters and routines that won’t quite fit the music.

Easy to sleep alone in a strange place when he came seeking connection. He plays with his braid as he curls around his dog, remembering that its coiled weight once brought him comfort.

~

The day he takes the picture in front of Hatsetsu’s ninja-concealing castle, he has his hair tucked beneath a hat. He doesn’t like to hide it, usually, but it’s far too attention grabbing and he wants to spend some time getting to know Yuuri without being interrupted by fans or curious locals.  

Somehow, from the depths of the internet there comes a theory that he’s cut his hair. Possibly that Yuuri has cut his hair, thus robbing him of his strength and ability to compete, like Samson of legend. Victor kind of likes the drama, actually, that might make a good routine if he were willing to do it.

Less cheerily, it makes him remember his resolution that maybe he couldn’t have Yuuri because he’d already chosen his hair as his one indulgence. For the first time in a long time he considers it, though it is only the fanciful seed of an idea. Perhaps he’ll have to sacrifice his hair to balance some mystical scale, to prove that he’d rather have Yuuri instead.

It’s Mari who finds him peering at himself in the bathroom mirror, holding his hair up and trying to imagine what it would look like short. She snorts in amusement and drags him off to her bedroom.

Half an hour later, his hair is pulled up around a pair of graceful lacquered hairpins, _kanzashi_ Mari calls them as she arranges him to her satisfaction. It’s not an entirely deft process, but his surprise at the proceedings is obvious enough that she claps a hand on his shoulder in protest.

“Just because I can’t be bothered with fancy hair doesn’t mean I don’t know _how_ ,” she says, fetching another pin from a drawer. It’s very pretty, with dangling pink flowers, but Victor isn’t sure where she thinks she’s going to put it. She doesn’t seem sure either, prodding his head experimentally in a couple places.

“Congratulations,” she says sardonically, examining her latest effort. “You get to be the little sister I never had.”

~

Victor goes to dinner that evening with every hair ornament Mari could lay her hands on attached to his head. It’s more ridiculous than fetching at this point, but Mari’s smiling with self-satisfaction while Yuuri’s mother giggles into her hands.

Yuuri trips over himself when he enters the room, and Makkachin takes advantage of his compromised balance, knocking him to the ground for easier access. Yuuri’s father starts guffawing, making some comment in Japanese when he finds the breath.

“He says that sharp _kanzashi_ were used as tools of self-defense,” Mari translates, waving a hand at the mass of boy and dog on the floor, “but not quite like that.”

 _Tools of self-defense,_ Victor thinks as he posts a picture later, proving in the process that his hair is still intact. He feels a moment’s kinship with some Edo-period lady who lived a life totally different from his own, the gulf between largely incomprehensible save for the shared understanding that their hair could be both shield and crown, a shining glory with a blade inside.  

That might make a good routine too, come to think of it.

~

Yuri Plisetsky comes to Japan and is reborn, however unwillingly, as Yurio.

He’s a real terror on the ice, but even blistering technical skill can only take him so far. Quite far, really, he could make a career of it without improving one iota. He’ll forever be held up against Victor’s example though, and he’ll be found wanting unless he improves his artistry and ability to emote. In some ways, Yuuri is the perfect foil to make him realize this.

It doesn’t escape him that Yurio grows his hair out after returning to Russia. _Let the world know you’re coming for them,_ Victor thinks, satisfied with the future of skating in his home country and the evidence of his own impact on the culture.

For the first time, seeing the end of his run as a competitive athlete feels like a triumph. He’s spent his whole life climbing to the top of this mountain, always worrying about falling off the far side. Now that he’s here, he realizes he gets to rest his tired body and enjoy the view. He can look around and bask in the truly towering height he’s achieved, and he can cheer on the people climbing up behind him.

Yuuri reaches for him for the first time since Sochi, pulls him into a nervous but exuberant embrace before he takes the ice against Yurio. It’s just as well Yurio concedes defeat, because Victor is in no way an impartial judge. He’d make like Rapunzel and throw a hair rope down to Yuuri in an instant, if only to bring him closer.

~

Victor dresses to the nines for his debut as a coach at Yuuri’s regional qualifier. He’s worn suits at any number of events and photoshoots, but this is different. This feels less like playing dress up for a few hours and more like being someone who goes to work in a suit. Victor’s working clothes have always been _workout_ clothes, he’s very aware of wearing something not meant for stretching or sweating in.

He only partially does it to show off for Yuuri. It bolsters his confidence, dressing for the role, it always has. There’s a reason he pays thousands of dollars for custom costumes, the way you present yourself makes a difference. He’s advertising his successful transition to a new role, demonstrating rinkside poise and competence. His brand is still “Victor Nikiforov” though, it wouldn’t do to let people forget who he is.

He pulls his hair into a high ponytail, straight of out his days as a Junior, and adjusts his tie.

Perfect.

~

Victor wants to hug Yuuri, he always wants to hug Yuuri. He’s thrilled that the sometimes recalcitrant skater comes flying when he opens his arms.

Then he remembers the blood and exactly what he paid for this coat. He regrets, but he can’t exactly replace it off the rack. He’s feeling a very coach-like mix of concern and exasperation towards his skater at the moment, but he can’t really be upset when Yuuri has demonstrated a willingness to run towards him rather than away.

The skating he can be patient with, the aborted hug rather less so. Later, as soon as he’s down to his shirt sleeves, he goes straight to Yuuri and wraps the startled skater in his arms. “I’m proud of you,” he says, and it could be something a good coach would say, but it’s rather belied by the way he leans full-bodied against the other man and refuses to let go.

Yuuri doesn’t immediately reciprocate, but he doesn’t pull away either. He places tentative hands on Victor’s waist, and Victor sighs with contentment into inky black hair. He just wants to close his eyes and stay here, warm and happy with Yuuri pressed close to his heart.

One hand leaves his waist and trails up his back, playing with the end of his ponytail. Victor’s lips pull up at the corners, theory confirmed. _He knew it was the hair._

~

Time flies, each moment with Yuuri precious but fleeting as the competitive season bears down on them.

Yuuri is amazing in the short program at the Cup of China, a perfect showcase of the fruits of their nascent partnership. Then he’s a sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden mess Victor isn’t even sure is safe to put on the ice. He realizes, sharply, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing and Yuuri is the one who’s going to suffer the consequences. He knows how to skate, how to plan programs and arrange choreography and a hundred other invaluable things.

It does not, necessarily, add up to being a coach.

He tries to force Yuuri to sleep because it seems like the most obvious answer. Victor naps without issue, but Yuuri obviously doesn’t find solace in either the bed or Victor’s body against him. Victor’s too alarmed by his own inability to anticipate the problem for the thought to be as lascivious as it deserves, but it’s not like he _doesn’t_ consider whether screwing Yuuri’s brains out right here in this room might take his mind off what’s eating him long enough to let him rest.

At Yuuri’s age, Victor would have been intrigued by the offer. Yuuri isn’t like any version of Victor though, he looks like he’d contract into a ball of misery if Victor so much as insinuated the possibility. Victor isn’t immune to nerves, it’s not like he’s never been dry mouthed and jittery going into a performance - aware that any particularly inopportune mistake could squander the legacy he was building.

It’s always been tempered by the enjoyment he takes in performing though. Yuuri seems to _dread_ an aspect of skating that’s always invigorated Victor. It’s humbling and frustrating, and in this moment Victor has no idea how Yuuri manages to have a career as a competitive skater at all. It feels sacrilegious to wonder because Yuuri is a truly inspired artist on the ice, but his relationship with his art is obviously a lot thornier than Victor’s ever was.

Victor reaches for one of Yuuri’s hands, squeezes, and then drop it into his hair. _Please Yuuri,_ he thinks, cheek pressed into a chest rising and falling too rapidly for rest. Yuuri pets his head listlessly, and all Victor can do is hope it helps.

~

Victor tries to help...more proactively.

It blows up in his face, again at Yuuri’s expense.

Victor is - well, it’s not that he’s never failed at anything. It’s not that he’s never come up short, stymied by skills he doesn’t possess yet. He’s just never hurt anyone but himself by acting on a bad idea, Yakov’s complaints about his greying hair aside.

It occurs to Victor that he might not know how to love someone any more than he knows how to be a coach. Threatening to leave was unkind, for all that he’d never have actually done it. Amorously tackling Yuuri in front of a stadium full of people and any number of cameras may also not be a particularly good idea, and Victor realizes this in the weightless moment between pulling his lips from Yuuri’s and impact against the ice.

The back of his hand manages to cradle Yuuri’s head through the landing, but video of their first kiss will be widely available forever. Victor doesn’t really have time to worry about offending Yuuri’s sometimes private sensibilities, the man looks more stunned than anything and Victor needs to explain himself somehow.

“This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you’ve surprised me,” he says. He means, _I love you too._

Yuuri blinks up at him, expression soft and open, arms still wrapped around Victor’s body where he’d reached out to catch him. “Really?” Yuuri asks, but not like he doesn’t believe it.  

~

Victor watches the footage as soon as he gets a spare moment in the ensuing chaos of the medal ceremony. Yuuri’s eyes pop unbelievably wide, and Victor’s hair flies behind him like a pennant. There are, he decides, some upsides to having the moment caught in full HD.

Yuuri finds his way back to Victor’s side as soon as he manages to disengage from the congratulatory throng. He stands a little closer than he did before, maybe, reassured that his presence is welcome. Victor would have kissed him on international television months ago if he’d known that was all it would take.

They face the media attention together, and the reporters manage to spend more time asking after Yuuri’s career than Victor’s, which is a pleasant development. Victor thinks he could get used to this, cheerfully expounding on Yuuri’s many virtues to a receptive audience.  

No one’s really surprised by Victor-and-Yuuri, not after the rather indiscret photo Phichit posted from their misadventure at the hot pot restaurant; Victor truly does regret the frazzled state of his hair in that one. He’d made a mess of it while fighting his way out of his clothes, and the humidity in Beijing wasn’t kind in the first place. He looks like a crazy person, clinging to Yuuri from under tangled silver tresses, while Yuuri holds his hands away as though afraid to touch bare skin.

At least his body still looks good, not even unpleasant weather and drunkenness can ruin that. Maybe Yuuri can be convinced to actually touch him the next time he takes off all his clothes.

~

Yuuri does not wait for Victor to even consider taking off his clothes, the moment they make it back to the hotel room he’s got his hands in Victor’s jacket, rucking up the back of his shirt so he can press his palms into the small of Victor’s back.

Having achieved this, he slumps against Victor, who leans against the door to support their combined weight. Victor pulls off his gloves and runs his hands through Yuuri’s hair, which is pitch black and strangely coarse between his fingers, while Yuuri works through whatever he’s thinking.

“Is this alright?” Yuuri says into his collar.

“Mmmhm,” Victor hums a confirmation without being entirely sure what Yuuri is asking. Anything Yuuri does or doesn’t want will be fine by him.

“Victor,” Yuuri groans, in a way that’s more exasperated than aroused. His fingers tighten against the skin of Victor’s back, so that’s promising at least.

Yuuri lifts his face, and Victor contentedly continues petting it along with his hair. Yuuri’s brow crunches, but he doesn’t protest. “You’re not going to just make this easy?”

 _Make this easy?_ Victor blinks slowly, considering. “You want me to ravish you Yuuri? I suppose if you ask nicely.”

Yuuri actually rolls his eyes, which Victor has never seen before and is delighted by. Even better, he starts pulling off Victor’s jacket and tie with renewed vigor. He’s not particularly gentle about it, and Victor’s not sure any of his clothes are going to survive this encounter. He decides he’s at peace with that.

Yuuri mutters as he works on the buttons of Victor’s waistcoat, not bothering to peel it off before he starts on the shirt underneath. “You show up at my house, and you’re naked _all the time_ , and you have all this - ” Yuuri fights the last button, pulling the shirt all the way out of Victor’s slacks. “Hair!” he finishes, a little wild-eyed.   

Victor cups his cheeks and pulls him in against the freshly bared skin of his chest. He kisses Yuuri sweetly on the lips, once, and then again because he can’t resist. “True,” he whispers against Yuuri’s jaw. “I’ve waited so long for you to take advantage. Very cruel, Yuuri.”

Yuuri - Yuuri _tugs on his ponytail in_ reprimand. Truly, this is a day of many firsts for Victor. He wonders what he would have to do to make Yuuri grab his ass; it seems newly possible.  

He’s noticed that he’s the only one losing clothes, but he’s content to let Yuuri take this at his own pace.

“ _You’ve_ been waiting.” Yuuri reaches behind Victor’s head, carefully extracting the hair tie and finally, finally griping Victor by the hair. “Eleven years, Nikiforov.” He pulls Victor down and kisses him, wet and open mouthed this time. Victor makes the acquaintance of Yuuri tongue, which is as lovely as the rest of him. He’s grinning into it, a bit roguish when Yuuri lets him up for air.

“You haven’t wanted to have sex with me since you were twelve Yuuri. I don’t believe it.”  

Yuuri tugs on his hair again, he has a double fistful by now, and it’s very nice. He can keep doing that as long as he wants, so far as Victor’s concerned.

“I wanted to touch your hair when I was twelve,” Yuuri says, which is far more credible. “Ever since the first time I saw you.”

A lot of people have wanted to touch Victor’s hair, honestly. Some have tried without asking. It’s one of the reasons he tends to pull it back. Yuuri though -“You’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

Yuuri kisses him on the mouth again, but only briefly. He turns his head to mouth along Victor’s jaw, kisses his neck, hands still tight in his hair. “Ah,” Victor vocalizes, breathily, letting himself arch into the hold.

Yuuri stops, releasing him entirely, which isn’t what Victor wanted at all. Then he uses both hands to push the shirt and waistcoat off Victor’s shoulders, grabs him by the waistband, and tows him back towards the bed.

~

Victor gets Yuuri to grab his ass. And his thighs, and his pecs, and other parts besides.

By the end, Yuuri will dig little crescent runnels into the muscles of his flanks, not able to do much more than hold on while Victor rides him to completion. He’s done already, which means he gets to sit up and watch the show, letting the strong muscles in his legs do the work, his hair mostly thrown over one shoulder.

Every so often Yuuri will squeeze his eyes closed, lost in sensation, but he always pries them open again almost immediately, so he can go back to watching Victor. It’s enough to send new excitement shooting down Victor’s spine, the palpable feeling that he’s truly rocking Yuuri’s world.

Ever adept at reading his audience, Victor leans forwards, bracing himself on one arm. His hair trails over Yuuri’s heaving chest, tickling against lines of muscle and tight, flushed nipples.

“Ngh-” Yuuri says, “not fair.” Then he’s gone, eyes fluttering closed uncontrollably. He has such lovely eyelashes, thick and dark and long. Victor leans down, hair falling in a curtain around his face, framing Yuuri where he lies panting. He kisses Yuuri’s half open mouth, the skin just below each closed eye, then he wiggles his hips just because he can.

Yuuri cracks his eyes open and groans, smacking Victor’s rear hard enough to startle himself with the sound, expression somewhere between sharp interest and utter bewilderment. Victor is shaking with giggles, but he rolls off, at least partially. He doesn’t go very far, determined to use Yuuri as his own personal body pillow.

“I think you broke it,” Yuuri mumbles, drunk on endorphins and whatever the opposite of buyer’s remorse is. Victor thinks he may have just fulfilled some very specific puberty-era fantasies, which he’s willing to consider a notable achievement.

Victor snakes a hand towards Yuuri’s waist from where he’s leaning against his side. “I can check for you if you’d like.”

Yuuri finds the energy to grab the hand before it reaches its destination, pulling it to his mouth so he can kiss the fingertips. He settles it against his chest, their fingers interlocked.

Victor’s hair is sex rumpled, and sleeping on it is only going to make it worse. Yuuri is somehow still wearing one of his socks. Victor should drag them to the shower, or at least find something to clean up with.

He means to, but he falls asleep between one breath and the next. He sleeps like the dead, and wakes up with Yuuri’s hand still curled around his in the morning.

~

Yuuri takes to brushing his hair out, never seeming to grow bored with the repetitive task. Victor doesn’t manage to cajole him into helping with the blow dryer, although he can sometimes convince him to straighten the hard-to-reach parts at the back of his head with a flat iron. He suspects that Yuuri doesn’t like the abrasive noise of the blow dryer, which is absolutely precious.

It becomes part of their pre-competition ritual, especially. When Yuuri can’t take to the ice and skate figures to work off his tension, drawing a wide toothed comb through Victor’s hair makes a decent second option. Victor starts carrying a much finer comb, useless on his own long mane, so he can return the favour after. It’s a largely symbolic gesture, Yuuri’s hair does what it wants unless gelled into place, but Victor trails his fingers over temples and ears and hopes Yuuri can feel the love he presses into his skin.

When he returns from Barcelona wearing a gold ring - which he’d had to fight as hard for as any gold he’s ever earned -  Hiroko pulls him into a quiet corner and presents him with a worn, rectangular wooden box. She nods encouragingly at him to open it.

Inside, wrapped in a white square of fabric, is a sizeable golden hairpin with a carved ornament on the end. It’s a long-beaked bird alighting upon a mass of blooming flowers, the material a warm amber and slightly translucent.

Hiroko points to the wall they’re standing near, where a framed picture of a much younger couple is displayed. Yuuri’s parents smile demurely out of the past, dressed in traditional formal wear. Hiroko has the pin in her hair.

“For wedding,” she says in her halting English, and Victor is almost sure she asked Mari to make sure she had the right word. He swallows wetly, brought almost to tears by a Katsuki for the second time in a week. Clearly, these are dangerous people.

Hiroko just pats his hands and curls them more firmly around the box.

~

Later, once Victor has regained his composure and bowed his thanks, he seeks out Yuuri. He finds him bent over his laptop and buries his face in his back without comment. Yuuri pauses briefly but continues typing when Victor doesn’t do anything more to interrupt.

“Can I stay?” he asks into the comfortable silence. He doesn’t mean in Japan, or in Yuuri’s family home; they’re already planning the move back to St. Petersburg. He just wants _this_ forever.

Yuuri tips his neck back and tilts his head until he can look at Victor. “And never leave,” he says, echoing the floating aria that brought them together in the first place.

Victor sighs and settles himself more comfortably, hooking his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder and wrapping arms around his waist. Yuuri goes back to typing, reaching up to periodically flick at the ends of Victor’s hair where they drape over his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to all the awesome people who inspired this, including the original anon who launched a cascade of fanworks. 
> 
> I'm still working on my next update of Enchantment, if you happen to follow that story, but this was eating my brain so I had to write it down. My tumblr is [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/) if you want to check it out, I'm generally somewhat confused by social media but I promise I don't bite.


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